


Kilt me dead

by becka



Category: BBC Radio 1 RPF, One Direction (Band)
Genre: Established Relationship, Kilts, M/M, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-14
Updated: 2018-05-14
Packaged: 2019-05-06 20:52:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14655999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/becka/pseuds/becka
Summary: Harry tries on a stage outfit meant for his Glasgow show. Nick is extremely into it.





	Kilt me dead

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [Lucy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/balefully) for looking this over. I haven't finished any fic in quite a while, so even random kilt porn is a little bit of an accomplishment.

Harry Lambert makes him twirl and pose in the kilt, and he feels a new kind of excitement with Nick watching too. “Is this the next big thing in fashion?” Nick asks, looking him lazily up and down.

“Absolutely,” says Harry Lambert. “Look at those legs. Who wouldn’t want to see more of those?”

“They are great legs,” Nick agrees.

It’s funny how much he likes it, the two of them talking like he can’t hear, like he’s just a beautiful object in the room. He smiles and folds his hands together, looking at his bare feet on the carpet.

“Well,” says Harry Lambert. “I should go. Take all that off and I’ll get it pressed and ready before we leave.”

Nick gives a little cough, and they both look at him. “Do you have to take it with you?”

The stylist’s mouth tightens as he swallows a smile. “I’m sure you’ve got a totally innocent reason for asking, so all I’m going to say is if there are any stains on that very fine wool when I see it again, I’ll be very cross. Do you hear me, Harold?”

“Yes, sir,” he says.

“You can save all that for this one,” Harry Lambert says and gets up. “Alright, I’m off. Be kind to those clothes.”

“Of course,” says Nick, and sees him out the door. 

When he comes back, the look on his face makes Harry want to go straight to his knees. Nick puts a hand on his waist and leans in close enough for Harry to feel the warmth of his breath against his open mouth. “This is a good look,” Nick tells him.

“I’m not wearing it the traditional way.”

Nick kisses the corner of his mouth. “We can change that.” He makes Harry take off his jacket and waistcoat, slips them back onto the hanger and hooks it over the door to the lounge. They’re doing whatever this is in Nick’s lounge, and imagining the sound of Emily’s key in the lock just excites Harry more, his dick pulsing hotly in his boxers beneath the kilt.

“Was this always a thing for you?” he asks, as Nick eyes him in his vest and the kilt, like he’s planning his next move. He goes for the vest next, tossing it away.

“Don’t think so. Can you do a Scottish accent? I’ll see if it jogs some sort of early fantasy in my brain.” He kisses Harry properly this time, his hands on Harry’s waist stroking the fine wool of the kilt. Nick’s been well into some of his suits, but not like this.

Harry tries to think of something Scottish to say, but now Nick’s pulling the kilt up, sliding his hands over Harry’s thighs until he can get at his underwear. One quick tug and it’s down, tangled around his thighs, and his dick is rubbing freely against the kilt. Which he’s specifically not supposed to stain. “Nick,” he says plaintively, “Harry will be very cross. He said.”

“We’ll have to keep you contained then, won’t we?” He gets down on his knees and lifts the kilt until Harry’s stiff cock appears from underneath, bobbing in its new freedom. They both look at it, slightly ludicrous beneath sedate dark wool, and then Nick wraps his mouth around the head and sucks. Harry’s eyes slip closed, and he takes a sharp breath, holding himself steady and still for Nick’s mouth, gloriously hot and wet and welcoming. Harry puts a shaking hand on Nick’s head, catching in his hair, and his knees are wobbly, but he stays upright as Nick’s hands cup his thighs, then move upward to part the cheeks of his arse. He can’t let Nick fuck him in the kilt, but he wants to as Nick’s fingers tease closer to his hole.

“I want to make such a mess of you,” Nick says, pulling back, his breath hot on Harry’s skin.

“I can take it off,” Harry says, fumbling at his waist, clumsy and eager. “You can do anything you like then.”

Nick looks up at him. “I don’t want you to take it off. Just hold it up for me. Bend over the arm of the sofa and just… let me see you.” He kisses the top of Harry’s thigh, just above his tattoo. “If you want.”

Harry licks his lips and turns away, folding the front of the kilt up over the arm of the sofa and bending to rest his folded arms there. He does want. He wants whatever Nick can give him. And now if he comes, it’ll be on Nick’s upholstery, which has probably seen worse from him in its time. “Just look out for the kilt.”

“I’ll certainly look out for it. It’s hard to miss.” Nick’s fingers trail up the backs of Harry’s thighs, and Harry’s skin buzzes with it. Then Nick’s lips press against his arse, right against the fleshiest part of one cheek, and Harry’s knees threaten to buckle. He sets his feet a little wider, trying to give Nick room to touch him more, to touch every part of him that’s craving it.

Harry shivers and ducks his head as Nick spreads him open and starts to lick him out. Nick’s tongue against his hole is clever, tickling around it and laving across it and opening him up until all he can think about is how much he wants something in him properly. He murmurs a “please”, digging his fingers into the arm of the sofa, Nick’s hands steady on his arse, keeping him in place while Harry’s whole body aches with the need to squirm and move. It’s not a comfortable position, bent nearly double against the sofa, but he knows how it must make him look, desperate and available with his arse stuck out, and he likes the glow of that feeling in his belly.

Nick’s tongue digs into the tight center of Harry’s hole, and Harry groans, but he needs more than that. The wool of the kilt rubs against his belly as he tries to tip his arse up even farther for Nick’s mouth, and he knows it will need more than light steaming to get the creases out if this keeps up. It’s a nice thought—the mess they’re making, the carelessness of it—until it starts to worry at him. He doesn’t want Harry to be upset with him. He doesn’t want to have to go on stage in something less beautiful than this.

“Nick,” he says urgently. “Nick, I want to take it off.”

Nick lifts his head, but Harry doesn’t move. He wants Nick to know he likes this, that he wants to be pinned against the sofa and eaten out until his eyes start to tear with how much he wants Nick’s cock. He just doesn’t want to ruin his stage clothes for it. “Can you get it or do you want to tell me how the buttons work?” Nick asks.

“I can get it.” Harry rummages around at his waist until the kilt is loose and he can let it fall. As soon as it hits the ground though, Nick’s scooped it up and taken it to hang on the door, along with Harry’s jacket.

“There. No harm done,” Nick tells him, smoothing the fabric. Harry sees him pause, looking from across the room. “Fucking hell,” Nick says, very quietly. Harry has a very clear idea of the picture he makes, and he likes feeling the weight of Nick’s gaze on his naked body, on the brazen angle of his arse, wet between with Nick’s spit.

“Come back,” says Harry, muffled by the arm of the sofa.

Nick steps closer. Harry can hear the sound of his footsteps and his breath, but he doesn’t look back. “Maybe I should get a couple of things first,” Nick says, and his fingers trail across Harry’s lower back, drifting like they might against a piece of furniture in a shop. Harry holds very still.

This time Harry can hear his footsteps going up the stairs, up to the landing and then through the bedroom over his head. Harry can’t hear Nick taking the condoms and lube out of the bedside table, but he can picture it happening. They’ve fucked enough in Nick’s bed now for this anticipation to be perfectly familiar.

Nick comes back down the stairs, and Harry doesn’t lift his head, keeping himself still and available against the end of the sofa. It’s alright that Nick hasn’t asked him to do it, even though that would be better.

And now Nick’s stood in the doorway again, just looking, before he comes over to stroke a hand up Harry’s back. “This doesn’t look comfortable, love,” he says kindly, petting Harry’s hair.

“I don’t mind,” Harry replies. “However you want me is alright.”

“Then I want you to get up. I want you where I can see you.”

Harry stands, slowly, rolling his shoulders into a new position as he turns around. Nick’s still dressed, and he’s just naked in the middle of Nick’s lounge, his cock poking up flushed and stiff between his legs. It feels obscene.

“This might be better than the kilt,” Nick says, and Harry steps up to kiss him, deep and thorough, as Nick settles a hand on his hip. 

He gets Harry splayed out on the sofa, one foot hooked over the back like an anchor keeping him in place. Harry feels exposed like this, his legs spread wide open, offering up everything in between for Nick’s eyes as he starts on the buttons of his jeans. It’s getting more difficult for Harry not to touch himself; he’s been hard for ages, and it hurts, the heavy weight of his cock resting on his belly.

Nick undresses all the way, even though Harry doesn’t need him to, and fits himself right in between Harry’s spread thighs, laying the condom packet and bottle of lube on Harry’s belly. Harry tilts his face up, beckoning a kiss, and Nick obliges at once, kissing him sweetly, Harry curling his legs up around Nick’s hips as though he isn’t aching, as though Nick isn’t too, by the way his cock is nudging against Harry’s.

Nick’s curls two fingers in between the cheeks of Harry’s arse, stroking where his skin is tacky with Nick’s spit, sensitive from Nick’s tongue. Harry arches into him, and Nick’s mouth settles under his jaw, open and hot, as he presses a little, fingertips kneading the sensitive stretch behind Harry’s balls. “Nick,” Harry says, a helpless whine.

“I’m right here, babe.” He grabs the lube in his other hand, not letting up between Harry’s legs as he drizzles it over his own fingers, over the trembling heat of Harry’s hole. The lube smears as he wriggles against Nick’s slick fingers, wanting them inside. He’ll pay to have the sofa cleaned if he has to. And then Nick’s pressing into him, two fingers together so that Harry can feel the stretch of it, a prickle of discomfort and then a slow, glorious slide. He could take Nick’s cock just like this, but Nick draws it out, teases with his thumb against Harry’s rim, opens him up just a little bit more on the blunt tip of it. Nick leans up until they’re nose to nose, eye to eye, and Harry is breathing in Nick’s breath as he gasps for air.

Nick doesn’t wait for him to beg, but it’s close, Harry making desperate wordless noises as Nick fucks him on two fingers and the promise of his thumb. When he pulls out altogether, Harry’s thighs quake with the sudden emptiness, his arsehole slick and craving. Nick sits back on his knees to roll on the condom, and Harry stares up at him, a flush behind his freckles and his hair curling with sweat over his forehead. And then Nick presses in close again, holding his cock to Harry’s hole, rubbing there until the angle is just right and he can get in and in and in, all of his cock swallowed up in one push, Harry’s legs holding him just there, deep as he can get.

They fuck in a steady, urgent rhythm, the sofa creaking under them, their mouths meeting and parting, the space between them humid with sweat. Harry’s dick is leaking against his belly, jolting with Nick’s thrusts, and Harry feels the wave of arousal starting to crest, orgasm gathering, drawing him in tighter around Nick. He wants to come, and he wants to draw it out further, and when he looks up into Nick’s face, he sees the same kind of conflicted effort, Nick pushing himself harder and then holding back, pausing, letting the tension recede a little.

Harry’s shivering and desperate by the time he comes, just from Nick’s cock filling him up, rocking into him at the perfect angle, the perfect tempo. Nick bites his lip as he watches Harry come apart, his mouth open on a deep groan. The next part is almost better, the few oversensitive moments before Nick comes too, working his hips in a tight little circle against Harry’s arse. It hurts a little, and a little more when he pulls out, but Harry savours it, the vulnerable ache he leaves behind.

Nick pulls the condom off and Harry sees him realise the nearest bin is in the kitchen. Watching him walk away is nice too, lying on the sofa boneless with satisfaction. Harry likes how the UK leg of his tour lets him dip into Nick’s life in London whenever he wants, makes it easy to take this for granted. Nick comes back into the room and smiles at him, and Harry smiles back.

“What do you say we continue this upstairs?” Nick says, leaning comfortably naked in the doorway.

Harry stretches lazily in response. “Reckon you could carry me?”

“Not on your life, popstar. Some big record label types would surely sue if I dropped you. Come on.” Nick gathers up his clothes and Harry’s from the floor, glances at the kilt and jacket hung over the door. They’re halfway up the stairs when he asks, conspicuously casual, “Out of curiosity, what happens to your stage outfits once the tour’s done?”


End file.
